


After Eight

by dashakay



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-24
Updated: 2009-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-03 16:07:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashakay/pseuds/dashakay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Is it the magic of the Eight Ball, the Christmas spirit, or something that's been a long time in coming? Co-written with Plausible Deniability.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Eight

"So that's all you can tell us?" Mulder asked, sitting across from the old Gypsy woman. "You can't remember anything else about the man who visited you?"

The cluttered trailer was dark and smelled of incense and cat food. A gray Persian, the apparent reason for the latter smell, purred noisily and wrapped itself around Mulder's ankles.

Madame Sujka frowned, and her dark eyes narrowed haughtily. "Of course that's not all I can tell you," she said in her heavily-accented English. "I see many things -- my future, your future. But the identity of the man you seek...that I cannot say."

"Really? You can see my future?"

"Come on, Mulder," Scully said behind him. "We're wasting our time here."

The Gypsy woman drew herself up proudly. "Of course I see your future. I am Madame Sujka!"

Mulder looked around with interest. "So what do you do, gaze into a crystal ball?"

"Mulder -- " Scully said, crossing her arms over her chest impatiently.

"Crystal balls are for amateurs," sneered Madame Sujka. "I read the palm, and the soul!"

"And you could read my palm?"

"Mulder!" Scully exclaimed.

"Give me your hand," ordered Madame Sujka, grabbing Mulder's wrist. She yanked his arm across the table and bent over it, peering intently. With one long, bony index finger, she traced the lines that criss-crossed his palm. Her lips moved wordlessly as she read the mysteries written before her.

She sat back finally with a look of satisfaction. "Your lucky number is eight," she pronounced, releasing his hand.

Mulder sat, waiting, while Scully tapped her foot.

"That's it?" he asked after a moment. "That's my whole fortune -- 'your lucky number is eight'?"

Scully looked amused. "Whatever happened to 'I see a tall, dark man in your future'?"

"That is your fortune," Madame Sujka snapped. "His fortune I have already determined. His lucky number is eight."

"That's really my whole fortune?" Mulder asked incredulously.

"That's the part that matters. That will be fifty dollars, please."

"Fifty dollars for that?" Mulder asked in disbelief.

The Persian jumped up on the table, purring loudly. Madame Sujka scooped the cat into her lap, and stroked its luxuriant fur. "You want a more romantic future," she answered, "you need to lead a more romantic life. Fifty dollars."

~

"Could you let me through here -- " Mulder shouted, trying to push his way between a group from the mailroom and two female agents whose names he couldn't remember. The throbbing beat of Frankie Goes to Hollywood's "Relax" all but drowned him out. He lifted his glass aloft and sucked in his chest in an effort to squeeze through the crowd.

"Hey!" said one of the women, turning around with a glare.

"Sorry," he said quickly. "Accident." There was not much else you could say to a woman when you'd just slid your groin against her ass.

The room was packed. It was warm, too; the combined heat of so many bodies had pushed the temperature up. There were flushed faces everywhere he looked. Of course, some of the glow around him was probably due to alcohol. Skinner served strong drinks.

In fact, he thought, maybe he ought to slow down a little. A cup of eggnog and four Sloe Drivers -- he rarely had that much to drink in a whole year, and here he'd downed it all in under ninety minutes. He had an impressive buzz going. The music seemed to be pounding right through him, making him want to grab the closest woman and dance.

Speaking of which, where was Scully? He looked around the crowd hopefully. He hadn't seen her all evening. If she didn't show up in ten minutes, he was out of here. He'd put in an appearance, made friendly conversation, had some drinks. He'd done his Office Christmas Party duty.

Skinner stood off to the side, near the glass windows, deep in conversation with a pretty blonde thing's cleavage. Mulder wiped his face and wondered what arcane secrets Skinner held, since his  
Assistant Director, despite the fierce body heat of federal employees, didn't seem to be sweating at all. And, on another note, how strange was it that Skinner was a Frankie Goes to Hollywood fan?

The music faded to the unmistakable synthesizer beat of "Sweet Dreams" and Mulder took another slug of his drink, watching the dancers writhe to the seductive purr of the singer's voice. Annie Lennox, with her aura of mystery, always gave him some rather interesting thoughts. But no, he was not going to go there. Tonight he was going to be on his best behavior. This was a work party and his pants were a bit tight.

Mulder's virtuous thoughts decided to pack it off for a three-day package trip to Vegas as he spotted a small red head making its way through the crowd. Pathetic, he thought, all I can see is the top three inches of her head and I'm already entertaining some dangerous ideas.

Those ideas sprung into three-dimensional, Technicolor fantasies as Scully finally made her way to him. She was holding a glass of florescent green punch and breathing hard at her efforts through the crowd. Already her cheeks were pink and her lips wet from either her drink or from licking them. Mulder hoped it was the second choice and that she'd do it again in front of him.

She must have gone home and changed. During the day she'd worn one of her ubiquitous black suits, but now she had on a silver-blue blouse that clung to her skin and was unbuttoned one button too far for modesty.

Holy shit. He'd never truly realized Scully had that many curves.

He shook his head to dispel the idea. Now he remembered why he didn't drink more often. It was dangerous being drunk -- thoughts were harder to govern. Besides, he had a feeling he was wearing that smile, the goofy one that appeared in some of his old photos from Oxford, when the camera had always seemed to catch him disheveled, glassy-eyed, and grinning among a group of equally-inebriated friends.

"Merry Christmas, Mulder," said Scully, arriving at his side. She had to raise her voice to make herself heard. "What's so funny?"

Yep, he thought; he was definitely wearing the goofy smile. "Private joke," he answered, to avoid incriminating himself. "Did you just get here, Scully?"

Her lips quirked at the corners. "Half an hour and three cups of punch ago."

Well, well, well, he thought; three cups of punch, and an actual smirk. Apparently he wasn't the only one who'd been partaking of a little holiday cheer. "You look nice tonight," he said, leaning in toward her so he wouldn't have to shout.

She tilted her head and her eyes flickered over him with a hint of  
tipsiness. "Thanks, Mulder. So do you."

She not only looked great, but she smelled great, too. It wasn't her usual perfume, but something stronger and decidedly sexier. Almost against his will, his gaze drifted to the neck of her blouse, and to the shadow of her cleavage.

"What?" she said, glancing down. "Did I spill something on myself?"

He flushed and looked away. Lust one, subtlety zero, he thought.

Scully touched his face and he stifled a shiver at the sensation of her fingers on his cheek. "Your face is red," she said over the thump thump thump of the music.

"It's hot in here," he said, stating the obvious.

She looked around at the horde of drunken agents with a wry grin. "If I had known that Skinner threw such a festive party, I would have accepted his annual invitation years ago,"

And if I had known that I would get to watch a bead of sweat slide between your cleavage, Scully, I would have, too. He could be such a pig after a few drinks.

"Coming through," shouted Allan Diamond, carrying three bottles of beer in each of his meaty hands. As he walked behind Scully he tripped a bit and shoved her right into Mulder, who had to reach out with both arms to keep her from falling flat on her face.

Oh God, now he could really smell her, the bewitching aroma of her perfume, the green tea shampoo he knew she used and underneath those commercial scents was the faintest hint of the real Scully. It was the scent she left on her pillows after a night's sleep.

Just as quickly as he had clasped Scully in his arms, Mulder allowed her to straighten up and back away from him. Dimly, he wondered if she had felt his growing erection.

He felt like he was in junior high again, getting hard at the Sweetheart Dance as he and Mindy Sebastian stumbled over each other's feet.

Nice, he thought, I'm pushing forty and regressing back to the days when the most action I got was popping my own zits.

Scully glanced at him a little self-consciously and smoothed her blouse over her hips, a move that only proved more distracting, since it caused her breasts to strain against the fabric. "Sorry," she said. "It's crowded in here."

"Yeah..." he said. "It is really crowded. I don't know if I'm going to stick around much longer." It seemed safer, under the circumstances, to make his exit.

She looked a little disappointed, but she nodded and said, "Yeah, me neither."

The song changed -- Duran Duran was singing "Hungry Like the Wolf." He wished Skinner would stop playing songs that reminded him of the days when he'd been having regular sex. In a minute the backup singer was going to start making that moaning sound, and then he would really be screwed. "Uh, before you go, Scully..."

She looked up at him hopefully. "Yes?"

"I, uh...I wanted to give you your Christmas present."

She brightened, even as she was jostled by someone from the Sci Crime Lab pushing past her on his way to the punchbowl. "You got me a Christmas present?"

"Well, don't get too excited," he said, reaching out to steady her. "It's just...you know, something small. It's the thought that counts." And if that didn't make him sound cheap, he thought with an inner urge to smack himself, nothing would.

She smiled. "I got you something, too, Mulder."

He must have been drunk, because he found himself with a small, fleeting hope that it was a can of Redi-Whip and a pair of silk scarves.

Kimberly, Skinner's assistant, snaked between the two of them, holly in her auburn hair and her gums green from the punch. "The mistletoe's over in the corner, Agents," she slurred as she passed.

Scully looked at her feet and Mulder cleared his throat.

"So, what did you get me?" he asked.

"I left it at home, Mulder. I was afraid I might break it."

Damn, cans of Redi-Whip didn't break, now did they?

Simon Le Bon sang, "Strut on a line, it's discord and rhyme, I'm on the hunt, I'm after you. Mouth is alive with juices like wine, and I'm hungry like the wolf," which reminded Mulder far too much of drunken nights peeling off Phoebe's panties in his little room at Oxford.

She moved closer and he smelled fruity and alcoholic punch on her breath. "Do you have my present?"

He would _no_t discuss the special gift he had for her in his pants. He really wasn't in the mood to be slapped by his erstwhile partner.

"It's with my coat," he said. "And the coats are in Skinner's room. But if you were serious about leaving anyway..."

She nodded, and he turned to make his way through the crowd. "Excuse me...excuse me..." he could barely hear himself repeating, though the press of people around them had been drinking enough, and the dancing had grown wild enough, that he doubted anyone even noticed him squeezing his way past.

He looked over his shoulder to see if he'd lost Scully. She was smaller than he was, after all, and he had a feeling that it would be easy for her to get swallowed up in the crush of bodies all around them. To his surprise, she was right behind him. She flashed him a smile and reached out to hook her finger in one of his belt loops. "I've got your back," she said, with a slightly drunken intonation.

When they reached the edge of Skinner's living room, the crowd thinned. Scully let go of him -- he was a little sorry to lose the tug of her hand on the back of his waistband -- as they made their way down the hallway. They passed a line of partygoers waiting for a turn in Skinner's bathroom. Further on, a few less sociable agents, and several couples who had retreated to the hallway in order to carry on conversations, hugged the walls.

At last they reached the door to the bedroom, and Mulder pushed it open to reveal Skinner's bed, buried under a sea of coats and jackets. He crossed to the bed and started sorting through the piles, hunting for his black trenchcoat.

Finally he found it. "Eureka," he said, glancing up to find Scully looking around her at Skinner's bedroom with frank curiosity. "And here's your present." He reached under his coat, and pulled out a package wrapped in red and gold foil.

She smiled nervously, and came to take it from his outstretched hand.

"Hmmm. It's heavy for its size," she said, hefting the package.

"Open it."

Frowning a little with concentration, she untied the thin gold ribbon. Then she began to carefully separate the cellophane tape from the folded paper.

Mulder watched with impatience. "Come on, Scully, just tear it."

She glanced up at him, smiled, and then tore the wrapping open with a satisfying rip. She pushed the paper aside and stared down at the gift in her hand. "It's . . .an Eight Ball."

He couldn't tell whether her voice held disappointment, or just surprise. "A_ Magic_ Eight Ball," he corrected. "The 'Magic' part is very important."

"That's nice, Mulder."

He couldn't help but notice that she seemed less than impressed. Damn, he should have gotten her jewelry. Women liked jewelry. Or perfume. He felt his heart sink.

From down the hall, he could hear the sound of another eighties tune -- Romeo Void's "Never Say Never." Debora Iyall, her voice dripping with attitude, taunted "I might like you better if we slept together..."

He really wished Skinner would get some new tunes.

He gestured at the Eight Ball. "Give it a try," he said, just to break the awkwardness of the moment.

She smiled fleetingly, a smile that told him he was being humored, and shook the black globe. "Is Mulder too drunk to drive himself home?" she asked in a clear voice.

She flipped the Eight Ball upside down. He peered over her shoulder to watch as the answer came floating up out of the inky blackness: AS I SEE IT YES.

"That does it," Scully said in a definitive voice. "I'm calling you a taxi."

He clutched at her arm as she went for the phone on the bedside table. "You'd better not be driving, either."

Her smile was almost taunting. "I was smarter than you, Mulder. I took a taxi over here."

A light bulb went off in his drink-sodden brain. "Great, then we can share a cab."

She looked at him as if he had sustained a major brain injury. "We live in opposite directions..."

Damn her for being so logical.

And then her face softened and he watched the color rise in her cheeks. "Well," she said in a voice that was barely audible over the music, "I do have to give you your present."

"And I can sober up with a cup of coffee," he pointed out.

"Coffee won't sober you up, it'll just make you an alert drunk."

"Gee, Scully, you're a ton of fun with a few drinks under your belt."

She actually grinned at that and picked up the phone to call the taxi.

The crowd was now singing along to Prince's 1999 and hopping up and down like coked-up frat boys, instead of the responsible agents of the law they truly were. Mulder smiled at the idea of the cops coming to bust this party and finding that the majority of the guests were Feds.

Skinner caught them as they were about to head out the door to wait downstairs for the cab. "Leaving so soon, Agents?" he boomed.

Oh great, they were being seen leaving a party together. That would fuel the rumor mill until Easter.

Scully made matters worse by turning a deep shade of red. "It was a great party, sir," she said, "But I leave for San Diego in the morning and Agent Mulder has been kind enough to offer to see me home."

Mulder found himself nodding his head in agreement, in a truly idiotic fashion. "Thanks for the party," he said.

Their boss adjusted his glasses and smiled. Or was that a smirk? Mulder couldn't be sure.

"Drive safely," was all Skinner said as they walked through the door.

~

It was cold outside Skinner's building, but the cold felt good after the overheated atmosphere of the party. It seemed awfully quiet outside, too; Mulder had grown so used to the throbbing beat of the music that the hush seemed to echo in his ears. Stars twinkled in the sky overhead, their brightness vying with the lights of the city.

Scully stood beside him, cradling the Eight Ball against her coat. Between the sweltering air of Skinner's apartment and the breeze here outside, her hair had turned wavy. It was a look Mulder liked; it gave her an unaccustomed air of wantonness. With her hair this way, he could imagine her wearing nothing but a lace bra and a string of pearls...

Oh, no, he could not imagine her that way. That was definitely crossing the line, especially since they were both tipsy and he was heading to her apartment. He pushed the thought from his mind and reached for the Eight Ball.

She looked at him questioningly as he took it from her. "Will the cab get here in the next minute?" he intoned, shaking the Eight Ball. He turned it over and held the window toward the streetlight to read the answer. "OUTLOOK GOOD."

"That shows how 'Magic' those things are," Scully said with a sniff. "There's no way the cab will get here that quickly on a Saturday night."

She had no sooner spoken the words, however, than a yellow cab rounded the corner and pulled up to the curb. She stared at it in surprise. Mulder shot her a self-satisfied look and bent down to open the taxi door for her.

He settled in the backseat beside her as she gave the driver the address, and the cab started on its way. After a moment he looked down at his lap and realized he was still holding the Eight Ball. He lifted it and gave it another shake.

"Is Scully a real redhead?" he asked loudly, causing the cabbie to glance back over his shoulder at them.

"Mulder!" she exclaimed, and made a grab for the Eight Ball.

He held it out of her reach. "IT IS DECIDEDLY SO," he read. "I'm so relieved."

She snatched it from his hand and shook it firmly. "Is it true what they say about men with big noses?" she asked, glancing at him. She turned it over and read, "DON'T COUNT ON IT."

"Ha-ha," he said. "I'm wounded."

But in truth, he wondered if the Ball was right. He had never done much comparing with other men before, since checking out another guy's package in the gym shower was a great way to get one's lights punched out, but everything down there seemed to be in proper proportion.

And besides, it wasn't like Scully was going to get a look at it. Not in a million years...

He leaned back in the seat and realized he didn't remember where they'd told the cabbie to go. It would seem they were on the way to Scully's place.

The thought made him shiver.

"Are you cold?" she whispered.

"A little," he said.

"I have hot chocolate at home. It won't sober either of us up, but it'll taste good."

The cabbie, a small, chubby man in a green parka, flipped on the radio and began scanning channels. He settled on Kajagoogoo's "Too Shy."

Weird, Mulder thought, we're being followed around by eighties songs tonight. He wouldn't admit it even under the pain of torture, but he'd gone to a Kajagoogoo concert in London with Fiona, his first English girlfriend. And even if hot bamboo shards were shoved under his fingernails, he'd never confess to the puffy-sleeved New Romantic shirt he'd worn to the show.

Scully must have seen something in his expression, for she picked up the Ball and asked, "Is Mulder a Kajagoogoo fan?"

OUTLOOK GOOD, the ball revealed.

"Ha, I knew it," she said.

He snorted and snatched the Magic Eight Ball from her hands. "Has Scully ever had sex to this song?"

"Mulder!" she said in an outraged tone, but the Ball said, IT IS DECIDEDLY SO.

He laughed. "I knew it."

She shut her eyes and smiled almost dreamily, the city lights flashing on her white face as the cab sped down the street. "Spring Break," she said. "I went to Jamaica with my boyfriend, Chris. We drank too many daiquiris at a place called Rasta Mike's and went down to the beach afterward and...

Mulder fought the urge to leave his mouth hanging open. Was this the Scully he'd known for years, recounting a sexual experience? If he'd known this might happen, he would have suggested they go to Skinner's party years ago.

Her eyes opened again, as if she were again aware of where she was and what she was doing. "I'm sorry," she said.

"For telling me that story? It was sweet."

She said nothing, but took the ball from Mulder, shaking it. "Does Mulder know his hand is on my thigh?" she asked it.

Mulder yanked his hand away. "Sorry -- "

Unperturbed, Scully read off the answer from the Eight Ball: "VERY DOUBTFUL."

"Well, at least it's right about that," he said, his face turned to the window.

He must have looked as embarrassed as he felt, because Scully reached out and squeezed his hand in hers. "It's okay, Mulder,"  she said, before letting go.

He glanced over at her, wondering what that meant -- 'it's okay.' Did it mean she wasn't angry, or did it mean she wanted him to do it again? He had never really been that good at reading women, even when he wasn't so out of practice.

They were entering Scully's neighborhood. She leaned forward to point out her building to the cabbie. Mulder watched her face, intelligent and composed, as she spoke to their driver. It made him wonder guiltily how he could have such lustful thoughts about his partner when she carried herself with such an air of dignity.

The cab slowed and Mulder pulled out his wallet to pay the cabdriver. "Thanks," he said, handing the man a couple of bills. Then he got out, and helped Scully exit the cab with a hand to her elbow. She was holding the Eight Ball against her, the gift pressed to her breast.

As they walked together to the door of her building, she reached in her coat pocket and pulled out her keys. "The holidays seem to come earlier every year. I can't believe I'm leaving for San Diego tomorrow."

"I won't stay long," he promised. He felt suddenly nervous, now that they were going to be alone together in her apartment. Ridiculous, he knew; it wasn't like they hadn't already spent countless hours alone together. Yet something about the cool night air, the alcohol in his blood, and the half-smile on Scully's face made his heart quicken.

"I didn't mean that, Mulder," she said, fitting her key in the lock.

Inside, her apartment was bright and cozy. She had put up a Christmas tree, decorated in rose and cream, and the air smelled like evergreen. He shed his coat and Scully took it from him, passing him the Eight Ball so she could hang their coats in the closet.

"You said something about hot chocolate?" he asked.

She smiled at him. "Sure, Mulder."

He followed her into the kitchen. He set the Eight Ball on the counter to watch her as she took coffee cups and cocoa from the cabinets. He hoped there was nothing sexist about the way he enjoyed watching Scully acting domestic.

"It's quiet in here," she said. "The party was so noisy."

"You want me to put some music on?"

She smiled at him. "Would you? It will only take me a minute to get this hot chocolate ready."

He went back out to the living room and turned on the stereo. He expected her to have the receiver tuned to something classical, or perhaps a station that played holiday music, but instead he heard Foreigner singing "I Want To Know What Love Is."

Creepy, he thought -- more eighties music. He fiddled with the tuner until he found a Christmas tune.

He went back in the kitchen to discover Scully holding the Eight Ball with a pensive look on her face. He stopped in his tracks, struck by how soft and pretty she looked, with her hair in soft waves and her eyes dreamy.

She glanced up at him, and then looked back down at the Eight Ball. "Mulder, if this really were magic," she said, turning the glass ball over slowly in her hands, "what would you most want to ask it?"

Looking at her, at how heart-rendingly lovely she looked, a question sprang immediately to mind, but it wasn't the kind of question he could admit to her. Instead he said, "I suppose I would ask it about Samantha."

"If she were still alive?"

He nodded.

She looked a little sad. "That's what I thought you'd ask it, Mulder."

"What about you, Scully? What would you ask it?"

A mixture of emotions crossed her face in the space of seconds-- sadness, curiosity and amusement. She thought for a moment, biting her lipstick-red lip and finally said, "I know it isn't really magic, Mulder. You can't get the answers to life's important questions from a toy."

He groaned. "Scully, you're supposed to be playing along here."

She shot him an indignant look. "Are you saying I'm a kill-joy?" Her brows knit together.

"Maybe," he hedged.

"I'm a kill-joy who needs a drink," she said, heading for the living room.

"I don't think we should have another drink," he called after her.

"Shut up, Mulder." She returned with a gold tissue-paper wrapped gift. "Merry Christmas."

"What is it?" he said, turning the rectangular package this way and that.

Scully smirked. "How about opening it to see?"

He ripped off the paper like a little boy hoping to find GI Joe with the Kung-Fu Grip. Mulder saw a plain cardboard box. Opening it, he drew out a bottle of clear liquid. The letters on the label were Cyrillic, so he had no idea what the bottle held. "What is this stuff?"

"It's vodka, from Russia, a very rare brand called Vosmaya Roza. It means 'The Eighth Rose.' Bill got it for me when he was on shore leave in Murmansk."

He grinned. "Are you sure you're not mixing up my present with Alex Krycek's?"

"All he gets is coal in his stocking this year."

"How perverse is it that I'm really glad that Bill's vodka made it to me?"

Scully had the good grace to laugh at that. She took two shot glasses from the cupboard. "Let's drink this on the couch. These heels are killing me." She kicked off her black high heels with an audible sigh and immediately shrank three inches.

They settled on the couch. Mulder uncapped the bottle and poured them each a shot. "What should we toast to?"

She blinked rapidly. "To us, Mulder."

To us? What the hell was that supposed to mean?

He put on his most casual face and clinked glasses with her. "To us," they said in unison and drank.

Woooo, it was strong and Mulder made a face at the vodka kick. To his shame, Scully knocked back the shot with unruffled aplomb.

He decided he had to salvage some pride. "So, you still need to ask the Magic Eight Ball what you would most like to know."

"Fine." She grabbed for the Ball and gave it a fierce shake. "I've got a good question..."

The look in her eyes was challenging and Mulder found himself holding his breath.

"Will Mulder get the guts to kiss me tonight?" she asked the Ball.

Mulder's eyebrows shot higher. "'The guts'?" he echoed.

Scully turned the Eight Ball over wordlessly. Heads together, they read the answer: SIGNS POINT TO YES.

She looked surprised, making him wonder if it was the answer she'd been hoping for.

"You said it wasn't really magic," Mulder reminded her.

"And you said it was," she countered, looking him in the eye.

~

He swallowed. His heart had begun to pound unnaturally. Gravely he took the Eight Ball from her, and reached over to set it down with care on the glass coffee table. Then he put his hands on her shoulders, bent his head, and kissed her softly on the lips.

The vodka, he realized in the same moment, must have some kind of delayed aftereffect; suddenly he felt about ten degrees warmer, heat sweeping through him in an alarming way. He'd always thought that when he kissed Scully, he would focus on her taste, her softness, her scent, their closeness; but all he could think about was how his pulse was racing out of control and how the vodka was so strong he must be having a heart attack.

He pulled away and fell against the back of the sofa, breathing hard.

Scully's face looked impressively pink. The vodka must be affecting her too, he thought vaguely.

"That was -- " she began. "That is, Mulder -- I thought -- "

He reached up to tug at his tie. "I know what you mean."

After a moment the feeling began to fade. He heaved a sigh of relief; for a minute there, he'd been afraid he was going to have to spend the rest of the evening in an emergency room.

"Wow," she said.

He sat up straighter. "I don't think I should have any more of that vodka tonight, Scully."

"Really?" She sounded breathless. "I was just thinking I should have given it to you a long time ago."

He laughed nervously, and picked up the Eight Ball. Scully had been drinking, and things were in danger of getting out of hand. "Should I be going home now?" he asked, shaking the Eight Ball.

He turned it over and read the answer.

"What does it say?" Scully asked, leaning closer.

He passed it to her without comment.

"CONCENTRATE AND ASK AGAIN," she read aloud.

He shut his eyes and concentrated with all his might. "Should I be going now?" He took a deep breath and shook. "MY REPLY IS NO."

Scully looked up at him and smiled. "I guess we have to do what the Ball says."  
_  
_His breath came out in a whoosh. "Are you saying you believe in magic?"

"I wouldn't go that far, Mulder." She grabbed the ball and shook it, saying, "Will Mulder give me a _real_ kiss this time?"

The ball said, OUTLOOK NOT SO GOOD.

Her lips turned down in a frown.

"You just have to know how to ask it the right questions, Scully," he said and gave the ball a fierce shaking. "Will _Scully_ give _me_ a real kiss this time?"

This time they both took deep breaths.

The ball told them, AS I SEE IT YES.

Her eyelashes fluttered a bit and he wondered if she were embarrassed. "I guess it's up to you," he said, smiling.

"Sleighbells ring, are you listening? In the lane, snow is glistening," sang Bing Crosby on the stereo and the lights on the tree twinkled.

She rose and touched his face with her warm hands. "I suppose it's only fair," she whispered.

He met her halfway and their lips met again, gently at first. Scully opened her mouth slightly and he felt her tongue slide between his lips. Mulder had to stifle a gasp as he tasted her chocolate and liquor-flavored mouth.

Their kiss went on for what felt like hours, their bodies pressed so tightly together a piece of typing paper couldn't have been slid between them. He felt his cock harden and he knew she could feel it against her stomach. This is so surreal, he thought. After all this time, all we've gone through, we're kissing.

He couldn't believe how happy such a simple act made him.

Scully was the first to pull away and he made a disappointed sound until he caught the unprecedented look of mischief in her eyes.

He made a grab for the Magic Eight Ball and asked the question that scared him more than just about any question in the world. "Does Scully want me?"

She laughed and covered the answer window with her hand. "What do you think it's going to say, Mulder?"

He closed his eyes. "I'm hoping for 'signs point to yes.'"

She uncovered the Eight Ball. They both leaned in and, together, they read the answer: IT IS DECIDEDLY SO.

"Maybe it _is _magic," Scully said, looking up at him.

Magic or not, Mulder showed it a total lack of respect as he tossed the Eight Ball down on the sofa beside him. He pulled her against him and kissed her, hard.

Scully straddled his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck as his tongue slid into her mouth. He felt her body heat through their clothes, smelled her perfume, tasted the sweetness of her. If his cock had been hard before, it was positively ready to burst through his clothes now.

She reached down between them and ran her palm up his erection. He took this as an invitation to touch her, too, and moved both his hands to her breasts. She felt so good, so soft and sexy and female, that he sighed into her mouth.

He began to unbutton her blouse. Not one to be outdone, she started tugging at his belt. When she seemed to be having trouble, he broke off their kiss just long enough to unbuckle it for her and unfasten his fly.

He couldn't quite believe it. They were going to make love. She could still say no, he supposed, but he didn't really need the Eight Ball to tell him that that wasn't going to happen.

On the stereo, Bruce Springsteen's version of "Santa Claus is Comin' To Town" was playing. "You'd better be good, for goodness' sake . . ." the radio chided.

He peeled her blouse open. He would have guessed that Scully would be shy, a little slow to respond; but she did not seem shy at all. Instead she smiled at him as he gazed in open admiration at her breasts, at the way her pale skin swelled above the satiny cups of her bra.

"You're so beautiful..." he breathed.

"I want to see you." She pulled his tie off and her fingers moved quickly down the buttons of his shirt. "I want to look at you, too, Mulder."

He shrugged out of his shirt while she helped. Then he pushed her blouse off her shoulders. As it dropped to the floor she pressed herself against him, skin to skin.

He wondered if she was as amazed as he was by the feeling. Had she imagined this before, as he had? Had she constructed a scenario very much like this one in her head, only to find the reality even better than the fantasy version?

He reached around to unhook her bra, and encountered nothing but uninterrupted satin. She drew back from their kiss, smiling. "It unfastens in the front," she said, and her hands moved to the clasp.

If he lived to see a thousand Christmases, he thought, he would never forget the sight of Scully at that moment.

He was cupping her breasts when she reached over and retrieved the Eight Ball from where he had tossed it on the sofa. "Is Mulder happy right now?" she asked, shaking the ball and flipping it upside down. She checked the answer and grinned at him. "YOU MAY RELY ON IT."

"I told you it was magic."

She shook it again, the movement resulting in a jiggle that Mulder found riveting. "Are Mulder's pants feeling tight?" she asked, with a sly glance.

He took the Eight Ball from her hands and tossed it aside again. "I can answer that one."

The grin on her face spread slowly. "Maybe I can help you out," she said.

When was he going to wake up from this insanely great dream, anyhow?

But the more he blinked, the more he realized this night was no dream. It had been a long time in coming.

She lifted off his body for a moment and with one hand began to tug off his pants. Mulder helped her out by lifting his hips. To his endless delight, his boxers came along with the pants to rest somewhere in the neighborhood of his ankles.

Scully settled herself back on his lap and her eyes traveled to where he was now exposed to the warm air of her living room. Would she like what she saw?

The mischievous eyes returned, as did the smile. Apparently she did like what she was seeing, for she ran her fingertips up and down his shaft with aching slowness.

Mulder shut his eyes for a moment so she wouldn't have to see the way his eyeballs were beginning to bug out like a cartoon  
character's.

He paused to kiss her lush mouth again, to feel his tongue moving alongside hers. She made a soft cry when he turned the attention  
of his mouth to the soft underside of her chin and the smooth skin of her neck.

"What do you want for Christmas, little girl?" he said in a labored voice, since her fingers were still working their holiday  
cheer on his cock.

"Are you Santa, then?"

"Have you been a good girl?" he asked, grinning.

"Unfortunately, yes."

"I see," he said, kissing her throat. "Nice instead of naughty."

She squeezed his cock. "You could remedy that."

He chuckled. "I'm sure I could."

He dipped his head and took her nipple in his mouth, sucking gently on it, rubbing it with his tongue. She squirmed in his lap, and her hand tightened on him.

"Mmmm, that feels good, Scully."

"I was about to say the same thing to you."

He gazed into her eyes for a moment, then slipped an arm around her shoulders and lowered her onto the sofa, covering her with his body. They both closed their eyes and he kissed her, long and slow. His hand trailed down, over her smooth skin, the firm curve of her breast, the hollow of her waist. When he found the button on her waistband, deftly he unfastened it.

He lifted off her just far enough for her to wiggle out of her slacks, kicking his own pants off his ankles at the same time. Then he covered her mouth with his again, and moved his hand between them to explore her with his fingers. She felt hot and slick, and his fingers slid easily over her and then a little way inside.

Good god, he thought. Amazing. It had been a long time since he'd been with a woman this way -- a long time since he'd felt that warm, tight softness, a long time since his pulse had quickened to the scent of pheromones and arousal, a long time since he'd heard a woman sighing under him. It felt like he was a kid again, and it was Christmas morning.

He set his forehead against hers. "Women smell good," he blurted out.

Scully laughed. "What?"

"Women smell good. You smell good. Oh, Scully, I'm so happy right now."

She lifted her lips to his ear. "I'm happy, too," she whispered.

On the radio, a choir was singing "The Twelve Days of Christmas." "On the eighth day of Christmas," caroled a strong tenor voice,  
"my true love gave to me...eight maids a-milking..."

Closing his eyes, Mulder pushed inside her with a sigh.

"Oh," Scully said.

He wondered what "oh" meant. It did not sound like a complaint. A thrill of pleasure passed through him. Leisurely he began to move, slowly out and then slowly, leisurely, deeply in again.

She moved, too, lifting her hips to meet him. Her smooth legs rose and locked around his back and her arms circled his neck. "Are we dreaming this, Mulder?" she half-whispered, half-groaned.

It took him a while to find the power of words. Who could form sentences, when his cock was pushing in and out of her soft wetness, when her muscles seemed to be squeezing him with every one of his thrusts? Speech was of secondary importance and besides, the vast majority of the blood meant for his brain had chosen to go south for the holidays.

Finally, he was able to say, "I don't think it's a dream, Scully."

Her laughter was clear and bright as New England winter mornings he remembered from his childhood.

Her hands slipped down to grab his buttocks and push him harder into her. "Oh God, I'm gonna pass out," he gasped.

"Don't you dare...don't you dare pass out, Mulder." Her voice was strained and he noticed that her eyes were clamped shut. Oh Scully, he thought, I always wondered how you would look at this moment.

He frantically wondered what he could do to keep his orgasm at bay. Mulder was right on the verge, so close he imagined it tickling the back of his neck. Just a little longer, he thought, making bargains with God, Yahweh, Allah, Krishna and all other known deities in whom he normally didn't believe. I know it's been a long time, but just a little more. Just a few more minutes. I've been waiting for almost seven years to see this  
beautiful woman come.

He tried to concentrate on something else, tried counting the number of stripes on her couch. Then she moaned, and he realized that only an idiot would count the stripes on a couch when he could be looking at Scully's flushed face instead.

Besides, he could sense that she was getting close. There was a tightening in her muscles, a stillness where before she had been moving right along with him. He reached down between them and stroked her along with his thrusts. If only she would -- if he could just --

It was no use. He couldn't wait any more. He could feel it welling up, knew there was nothing more he could do. "Oh, God. I'm going to come," he groaned.

In that same instant Scully arched her neck and wailed -- there was no other word for it -- she actually wailed his name. He felt the contractions of her orgasm squeezing his cock as she shuddered powerfully under him. Oh my God, he thought. The feeling literally took his breath away.

Her shout was still echoing in his ears as he pushed as deeply into her as he could, and gushed into her over and over.

~

He was still lying atop Scully, groggy and dazed, when he felt her hand groping for something in the vicinity of his thigh.

"What are you looking for?" he mumbled.

"This," she said, and showed him the Eight Ball.

He realized he was probably squashing her, and propped himself up on one elbow. "What are you going to ask it?"

She shook the Eight Ball and gave him a playful look. "Was that the best sex I've ever had?"

"If it says 'My sources say no,' I'm throwing it out the window."

She laughed and showed him the answer: IT IS CERTAIN.

"Well," he said, feeling ridiculously pleased with himself, "once a millennium or so, I get lucky."

She gave his shoulder a little squeeze and laughed. "It had better not be another millennium before you get lucky."

He wondered how many times he'd heard Scully laugh. Far too few, he thought, and made an early New Year's resolution to make her laugh at least once a day.

That wasn't the only thing he resolved to do once a day.

~

After a quick shower, they raided her fridge and ended up making large, messy sandwiches from nearly everything that was inside. Mulder had never known that turkey bacon, pickled cabbage, tortilla chips and mustard could make such a compellingly delicious sandwich. Or maybe it was the afterglow of sex and the fact that Scully was sitting across the kitchen table from him wearing only a navy blue silk robe that wasn't sashed well enough and kept gaping open to reveal her small, beautiful breasts.

He put down the crusts of his sandwich, took a swallow of orange juice and yawned.

"Tired?" she asked, brushing her hair off her forehead.

"A little." Was she going to ask him to go home?

"Do you...do you want to stay over tonight?" The expression on her face was surprisingly shy.

Everything's changed, he thought, but instead of that realization scaring him, it felt entirely natural. They were finally doing what they were meant to do.

"If you want me to..." he said, hedging his bets.

"Of course I do." She rose and put their plates in the sink. "My flight isn't until one in the afternoon tomorrow. We can sleep in."

Amazing, he and Scully would be sleeping in together.

They slid into her comfortable, big bed together and he sighed in pleasure as she moved against him and kissed him in the dark.

This time, they took their leisurely time in kissing and touching one another, discovering each other's spots of pleasure. He tried to memorize every spot he touched that made her moan or gasp, so that he could do it again. She straddled his face and cried out steadily as he tasted her with his tongue, running it all over her slick folds and around her ruby-read clit until she shuddered above him. Who needed Christmas gifts when he could make Scully come?

And it was truly a Christmas miracle when she lowered herself onto his cock and moved on him with the grace of a dancer. He looked into her eyes, shining in the glow from the streetlights outside her window, and realized that he had everything in the world.

They were just about asleep, her back tucked neatly against his chest, when something occurred to him.

"Hey, Scully, are you asleep?" he whispered.

She stirred a little and her head rose. "Not quite."

"Remember the gypsy, Madame Sujka?"

"Yeah?"

Mulder leaned in and sniffed her hair. The shampoo scent was now overlaid with the heady musk of sex.

"She said that eight was my lucky number..."

She chuckled. "How is this significant?"

"I got you a Magic Eight Ball for Christmas and the bottle of vodka is called 'The Eighth Rose.' And all night we heard eighties music."

Scully's chuckle turned to a full-blown laugh. "We'll open an X-file on it after the holidays, okay?"

He kissed the nape of her neck and settled down to sleep, listening to her breathing slow.

Mulder had just about dropped off when he opened his eyes and saw the Magic Eight Ball sitting on the bedside table. He switched the lamp on to the dimmest setting and started to shake the ball.

"Does Scully love me?" he asked it.

Before he could see the answer, she stirred. "Put down the ball, Mulder," she said. "I think you already know the answer to that question."

All in all, it was a very good Christmas.

END


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